Bete Noire
by denryuu
Summary: Eriolfic. Spoilers abounding. Filling in the gap between Clow’s death and Eriol’s intro in the manga. Newly revamped >_>;;


title: bete noire  
author: erin/denryuu  
rating: PG  
spoilers: All 12 volumes [based strictly on manga plot]  
disclaimers etc: Cardcaptor Sakura belongs to CLAMP, Kodansha Comics etc. Just giving Eriol what he deserves ^^ More notes at the bottom.

---

The day after his death, he lived.

The thought confused no one more than he, himself, as he rushed barefoot back through the hallway. It was not only the fact that he was quite positive that, yes, he was very much alive, but also that he did remember dying. Muddled thoughts, but in his memories nonetheless. He slid open the sitting room door, caught his reflection and the reflection of the room's other, less obtrusive occupant in window, and stopped mid step. Quite what he had expected, yet simultaneously everything he had not. He wasn't used to being surprised.

Hesitantly, he approached his desk, pulling the journal, the object of his interest, out of the top left-hand drawer carefully. It was small, black, and leather bound, with a miniature gold version of his magic circle acting as a lock. He touched the circle once with his index and middle fingers, and the journal promptly sprang open. His fingers moved deftly with concentrated anticipation as they flipped the pages to the very back, to the last entry. Yesterday's.

_Feras, non culpas, quod mutari non potest._

He frowned, staring at the Latin quotation quizzically. He remembered, detachedly, writing the entry. He knew what it meant, the author of the quotation, and why he had chosen it as a message to himself-- He paused to consider that. He _did_ remember writing the entry, but the actual action was one he had not experienced. Nor, for that peculiar matter, had he experienced any of the actions in his memories. With a wave of sudden dizziness, he grasped the edge of the desk with his free hand.

He took a few moments, standing like that, before he stood up straight and brushed his brow with the back of his hand. Then, carefully picked up the quill and dipped it in the ink well, both of which hadn't, since their brief use the day earlier, been put away properly. He hesitated a moment, then printed the translation in English below the Latin, and spoke it aloud. "Bear, do not blame, that which cannot be changed."

With his unoccupied hand, he felt his forehead once again, thinking it might be best to sit. He didn't, and instead paged back through the journal, finding each page was polyglot, a curious mix of English, Chinese, Japanese, and various other (made up? he wondered) languages. Not surprisingly, he found it all quite intelligible.

His exploration of the journal stopped abruptly at an entry from three days prior.

_Hiiragizawa Eriol. Kinomoto Fujitaka. "As if a second self." Quaint names, aren't they? I came up with them at dinner last night with Colgan and wrote them down on my napkin. Had a terrific time explaining it to him, though after his amusing demonstration of mediocre Japanese, he gave up with an exasperated sigh and said 'Just scribbles, this bloody language.'_

_And then, it will finally be over._

He ran his finger below the characters he recognised as his name, eyebrows drawn together. Over.

Abruptly, he backed away from the journal, and stumbled.

It took a moment to balance himself, composed himself half-hazardly, despite the set of images flashing over his eyes. Butterflies, sakura blossoms, _H_er-- He opened his eyes and threw a look over his shoulder at the lulled figure of Fujitaka, sitting in the corner with the Book still in his grasp. It seemed nearly anticlimactic in a sense to realise then that the magic hadn't been properly divided.

He found the staff key resting on the desk in an oddly informal manner. "Yami no chikara o himeshi 'kagi' yo. Shin no sugata o ware no mae ni shimese. Keiyaku no moto Clow ga meijiru. Release!" Nothing. Bemused, he curled his hand around the key. It was peculiar, he thought, to find that expectations that simply didn't exist had somehow failed to be met. Or perhaps, it was simply the speed in which delusions were dashed that had him as he was.

I am...

He stepped again to the desk, quill poised to write. He hesitated, then printed, _If I am not truly Clow, and yet not truly Eriol, who am I?_ He felt then the sudden, familiar rush of images from the past. Yue. Cerberus. His gaze impulsively caught the Book.

_To be reborn..._ Eriol's hand hovered over the foolscap, and after a moment's thought, he made a line through the words. _It is not over_, he wrote hastily, and closed the journal between both palms. Moments later it had been placed back gently in the top desk drawer, the ink well had been capped, and Eriol had sank to the floor next to Fujitaka.

Clow had failed. Even as the thought crossed his mind he saw Her again, grasping tightly on to the Staff. He saw an unmistakable Li-- he would fail, too. He saw the Tower. And with unfamiliar, yet welcome still-- to say nothing of unbalanced-- feelings of anger and unrest washing over him, he hugged his knees tightly to his chest. He was too powerful, still, and for that, he cursed Clow.

Because, for as trite as it was, it had hit him all in an instant the full truth of his situation, and the realisation left him feeling, with a frankness that was reserved strictly for his thoughts, burdened. And alone, and perhaps a little used. But possibly the worst part, with Clow's last entry in his thoughts, being that Clow hadn't expected any less.

So to be responsible... There was really no choice about it.

Eriol leaned back languidly against the wall, interest in watching the snow finally lost, and gazed up at the ceiling. It would be good, he thought absently, to go home. To England. It wasn't a thought that was completely original, nor particularly inspired; essentially, it was just an passing notion Clow had had while considering life post death. Return to England because there was simply nothing left to do in Japan. Eriol found this to be a suitable excuse to leave.

He moved inelegantly on to one knee in front of Fujitaka, gently brushing back a few strands of hair off his forehead with a quiet murmur of an indefinite sort of sleeping charm. It was easiest that way; they had a long time to go before they would be meeting under completely honest circumstances.

"Farewell," he said weakly, grazing the Book's cover. It burned, not altogether unpleasantly, beneath his fingers.

Eriol then stood, despite hours of inactivity fixing a painful stiffness in his legs, and padded abruptly to the door, sliding it open after a short, fond glance about the room. Still, he traced back through the hallways and into the foyer at a fleet pace, stopping only when he was standing in the fresh and falling snow, outside the front doors.

It would be best if things stayed the way they were until it was time. The sentiment was purely Clow's, but it made no difference. Eriol kept to it, and left.

---

a/n. The title, bete noire, is french for black beast, and has also come to mean something/someone you loathe. Eriol's bitter, what can I say ^^ The Latin is a quotation by Publilius Syrus, who, to my knowledge, was a Roman writer/mime/former slave. Clow's apologia, to an extent. Yes, the speculation in this fic is choking, but there's not much in canon to work with. _o Many thanks to those who've listened to my babbling concerning this fic thus far, Ry especially ^_^ Feedback always appreciated. [erinbear04@linkline.com]   
8/10/02 - just tweaked some things. 


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